


Little Bear's Big Problem

by coggs



Series: Patrick Kane: Sex God [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:45:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coggs/pseuds/coggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Sam Gagner wants is a nice Midwestern boy and maybe a dog. Instead Jeff Carter and Patrick Kane ruin his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Bear's Big Problem

**Author's Note:**

> Um, don't even try to come up with a coherent reason for any of this, especially why all these people are interacting. And it's not necessarily to have read the first story, as long as you can accepted a universe where Patrick Kane is good at banging.
> 
> Basically, I read hanet's _truly superior_ story [young punks takin' shots, strippin' down to dirty socks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/753425) and fell in love with Sam Gagner: The Only Moderately Intelligent Man on the Oilers (this is pre-Andrew Ference, of course).
> 
> So, naturally, I _also_ had to write a story where he is besieged by idiots. But seriously, just read hanet's thing instead.
> 
> Once again, thanks to [S-Pod](http://archiveofourown.org/users/four_right_chords) for doing all the hard work and thinking I was funny.

When Sam was in high school, his dad sat him down and they had a very serious conversation about how if hockey was going to be his future, he needed to make sure he knew what his priorities were and always focus on them. Sam had taken this to heart and made an actual list, scrawled on a yellow legal pad. Now that Sam is a professional hockey player, the list is on his phone, but he makes sure to update it whenever a new priority emerges. Mostly his needs are simple: he wants to play hockey, he wants to be able to help take care of his parents, he wants to retire, and he eventually wants to settle down. Sam is not a complicated guy and his list of priorities helps him avoid unnecessary complications. 

All of Sam’s work at avoiding complications went to shit when Jeff Carter called Sam at _three in the morning_ begging to have sex.

“What?” is all Sam can say, because seriously, _what_?

“Come on, Gags, _please_?” And holy shit, Jeff is actually whining about this. 

“But you’re in California,” is all Sam’s tired brain can process in that moment.

Jeff pauses as if he has forgotten that fact. “It could be phone sex? Do you think phone sex would work?”

Sam has never been more confused about what another person is talking about in his life, and he knew Patrick Kane as a teenager. “Work for what?” 

Jeff snorts, like _Sam_ is the idiot here. “Work for getting your sex magic.”

“My what?!”

“You know, your sex magic. Whatever you do that got Kaner to be so good.” Jeff is sounding very patient as he explains this. “If we fuck again, I can become _even better_ at sex.”

Sam does not have the heart to tell Jeff that he had only been average in bed. “So why not call Patrick and ask _him_ for sex?”

“And get dismembered by Toews? Pass.” Sam has to concede that that’s a pretty good point.

“Well, I don’t have a Tazer to stop you, but you’re not getting any sex from me either. Night.” Sam hangs up before Jeff can try and convince him again because, _seriously_ , three in the morning. 

* * *

Jeff doesn’t calls at three again, but he also doesn’t stop calling. It doesn’t make any sense to Sam. He and Jeff slept together _once_ , and Sam doesn’t suck, but he’s not Kaner: Living Legend, either. But Jeff seems convinced that Sam’s semen has some sort of magical sex properties. Sam was worried that Jeff was a few weeks away from just asking Sam to jerk off in a cup and send it to him. 

“Do you,” Sam has to ask, because it’s actually the fifth time Jeff has called him that week, “actually feel like you got better at sex after we hooked up?”

“Uh,” Jeff says, considering. “I mean, I didn’t get worse?” Sam resists the urge to fly to LA just to throttle him.

“If you didn’t get better _before_ , why would sleeping together again suddenly do it?” Sam is trying very hard not to actually yell, because Jeff is still someone he has to play against and he’s just trying to suck Sam’s dick, not fight him.

“I don’t know how your sexual powers work, man!” Jeff’s getting pretty defensive now. “I just know that they _work_. I have experienced the results.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam says, “I haven’t. Patrick Kane is actually the worst sex I’ve ever had.”

Jeff gasps at that, and Sam is hoping this means he is finally going to stop with this sex magic shit when Jeff says, “Oh my god, he’s the _worst_? Whatever kind of sex magic you have, I _definitely_ need some now, because holy shit.”

Sam doesn’t even say goodbye before hanging up this time. He also ignores Jeff’s call for a week.

* * *

If Sam thinks that ignoring Jeff Carter would make the sex magic thing stop happening, he’s forgotten that Jeff Carter is exactly the sort of moron who talks shit when drunk. Which explains why Sam wakes up at 10 AM on his day off to Alex Ovechkin ringing his doorbell repeatedly.

“Wha-” Sam starts after he opens the door, but before he can finish the thought ( _-t the FUCK are you doing here?_ ), Ovechkin has already pushed past Sam into his house.

“Hello Sam Gagner!” Ovechkin says brightly, as though Sam had invited him inside. Sam wants to push him out the door, but Ovechkin is already toeing off his shoes, and Sam doesn’t want to be a bad host.

“Hey Ovechkin,” Sam says through gritted teeth.

“Please, we are friends! Call me Alex. Or Ovie.” Ovechkin - Ovie - says this like it’s a fact, like this isn’t the _first conversation they’ve ever had_.

“Hey _Ovie_ ,” Sam starts again “what are you doing - ” and Sam can’t even finish that sentence because now that his shoes are off, Ovechkin is taking off his shirt. Sam squints in confusion because - is that a Russian thing? He tries to remember if Nail has ever tried to take off his shirt when he’s come over, but is sidetracked by the fact that Ovechkin is _also_ removing his belt.

Sam feels a stress headache coming on.

“I am here, Sam Gagner, for sex!” Ovechkin says this without shame and also like Sam has _already agreed to do this_. Sam starts to worry that maybe he’s been having concussion symptoms and lost his memory of arranging sex with Ovechkin. Because the other explanation is that Sam has a crazy Russian he has to try and get out of his house.

Off his expression, Ovechkin adds, “I have spoken with Jeff Carter. Over drinks. He told me _things_.” He says the last part like it’s the dirtiest thing ever and then he actually _winks_ at Sam, Jesus.

Unfortunately, that clears up exactly nothing for Sam. “And …?” he prompts.

Ovechkin sighs, like Sam is the one who is being rude and burdensome and not the Russian who is taking off his socks in Sam’s foyer. “And what? He tell me about you and Kaner. I have also had Kaner - ” and Ovechkin pauses here to waggle his eyebrows, “and Cartsy tell me that you were Kaner’s first. That you are the reason he so - ” Sam can’t actually figure out what Ovechkin just did with his hands, but it’s probably the filthiest things he’s ever seen outside of porn.

Then what Ovechkin is saying sinks in. “Oh fuck, not this again.” Sam takes a moment to curse Jeff Carter, and also Patrick, because _somehow_ , this is all Pat’s fault.

“Look, Ovie,” Sam starts, “I am deeply flattered, but you have to be smarter than Jeff Carter. Please tell me you understand that my dick is not _actually_ magic and will not make you better in bed?” 

“Sam, Sam, Sam, my little bear,” Ovie says, shaking his head fondly, “I know dicks are not magic. But I also know that Kaner is Kaner, and you help him. I think, maybe help me?”

Ovechkin is in his boxers now and is walking towards the living room, because that is _totally normal_ guest behavior. And Sam admires the way he plays hockey, but the more of his body Sam sees the less he wants to sleep with him. Which was 0% to start with.

Sam follows Ovechkin into the living room. “Ovie, I didn’t help Pat get good at sex. Pat and I had _really bad_ sex. We had the _worst_ sex. He did his whole sex god thing all on his own.”

Ovechkin is sitting on the couch and patting the seat next to him, looking at Sam expectantly.

“Ovie,” and Sam is getting a little fed up now, “are you listening to me at all? I’m not some sex guru, I’m just - wait. Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Ovechkin beams. “Yes! Beautiful, beautiful girl. Nothing like you, Sam Gagner.”

“So why,” Sam says slowly, “are you trying to sleep with _me_?”

For the first time since he walked into Sam’s house, Ovechkin looks bashful. “Girlfriend and I are having problems. Not good. So I thought, maybe …” and he gestures at Sam, who finally gets it. Oh god, why does Sam play a sport with the kind of people who think banging him is going to solve their relationship problems?

“Ovie,” Sam says carefully, “again, I am very flattered, but I don’t think your girlfriend would be happy to find out you cheated on her, no matter how much I improve your sex life.” Ovechkin looks chastened at that, so Sam adds, “and anyway, I don’t sleep with people in relationships.”

Ovechkin nods. “Okay, Sam Gagner, I understand. Keep sex expertise for self. Is fine. Let’s play game instead?”

Sam gives a sigh of relief and sends Patrick a quick text ( _ur ruining my LIFE_ ), before playing Katamari with Alex Ovechkin for an afternoon.

* * *

Sam isn’t exactly a hot property, lookswise, so he feels weird turning down all the sex offers he’s suddenly getting. Because it’s not just Jeff Carter ( _still_ ) or Alex Ovechkin, but a dozen guys from teams he plays who all start giving him blatant looks. He’s gotten a few dirty texts from some very unexpected places and had to laugh off another set of guys who were suddenly very handsy. He’s also 90% sure that Mike Richards is just calling him to breathe angrily before hanging up, and Sam doesn’t even want to think about what that means.

Basically, Sam has never had so many chances to get laid and wanted exactly none of them. Sam is, sadly, pretty much a serial monogamist, and right now he has an enormous crush on a guy he’s spoken to exactly twice.

His name is Tim, and he’s a graduate student at the University of Alberta studying _nanotechnology_. He frequents the same coffeeshop as Sam because he likes the giant windows, and he has a really great smile. Sam is absolutely terrified to ask him out, because what _Tim_ does for a living is build tiny robots to improve humanity, and what _Sam_ does for a living is try not to get hit in the face while chasing a rubber disc. Sam’s proud of hockey and proud of being an Oiler, but he’s also aware that Tim is so far out of his league it’s crazy.

The only thing that gives Sam even the tiniest bit of hope is that Tim started their first conversation. There was a new barista at the coffeeshop and when Sam went up to place his order, she blurted out, “Holy shit, you’re Sam Gagner.” Sam blushed and said yes and offered to sign something for her, but while she was making his order, the incredibly cute guy that Sam had been sort of checking out said, “So what makes you so special, Sam Gagner?” Sam had blushed even more.

It turned out that Tim was from Kansas by way of Lebanon and so didn’t understand hockey _at all_ (“I’m not against it!” he had insisted, “I’m just not Canadian about it”), and barely knew that Edmonton even had a hockey team. Sam wanted to talk to him more, about _everything_ , but then the barista brought him his order and he had to leave.

After that Sam mostly just gave Tim a smile and polite nod when he saw him in the coffee shop, but one time when he walked by Tim kicked out a chair and said, “Sam Gagner, I need a study break. Talk to me about _anything_ , even hockey.” And Sam told him a bit about hockey, but mostly they discussed the differences between America and Canada and what it actually is that Tim does.

Sam was hopelessly smitten. And maybe it’s all the confidence he’s gaining from the knowledge that he’s not actually the stupidest person in the NHL, but the next time he’s in the coffee shop and sees Tim, he actually sits down next to him and starts a conversation. Sam’s in the middle of trying to explain CFL rules to Tim while Tim tries to explain NFL rules to Sam when Sam’s phone dings.

“Oh, do you need to get that?” Tim asks, and is already handing Sam his phone when he glances at the screen and says, “Oh,” in a small voice. 

Sam raises his eyebrows, but Tim just shakes his head and says, “Answer your text, I have to go to the bathroom.” Tim seems sort of annoyed, and Sam has no idea why until he sees the text.

It’s from Jeff Carter (who is in Sam’s phone as THE OTHER BLONDE ASSHOLE), and it just says “ _in ur city next wk WE R HAVING SEX_ ”.

“Fuck _everything_ ,” Sam says out loud, and when Tim gets back from the bathroom and hurries to leave Sam has to resist the instinct to find Jeff and murder him.

* * *

Sam goes into the coffee shop every day that week, sometimes twice a day, hoping he’ll be able to see Tim and explain. But Tim is nowhere to be found, and Sam is left to alternate between deep sadness and thinking of all the ways he can destroy everyone who has ever wronged him, _especially_ Jeff Carter.

What Sam doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about is that maybe he should stop answering his doorbell, because when it rings the night before the Kings game, he answers it and is instantly ambushed by Carter. And Carter’s tongue. In his mouth.

“Jesus Christ, Jeff!” Sam says, pushing Carter away. 

Carter only grins and starts pulling off his shirt. “That good, huh?” Jeff says flirtily, leaning forward and shoving his tongue in Sam’s mouth _again_.

“Stop, stop,” Sam says, initially muffled by some truly shitty French kissing before he’s able to shove Jeff away. “I don’t want to have sex with you!” 

Jeff pouts, and Sam just loses it.

“ _How_ is this news to you, Jeff?!” and Sam is so past his limit he’s actually jabbing his index finger at Jeff. “I have been telling you I don’t want to sleep with you _for months_. Why would you barge in here and make out with me?”

Jeff at least has the good sense to look ashamed, and says, “Look, I’m not stupid, okay?” Sam actually snorts out loud, and Jeff glares before continuing. “I’m not! I know you’ve been rejecting me.”

“You’d have to be _actually brain dead_ not to know that,” Sam interjects. “I’ve been pretty obvious.”

“I know!” Jeff snaps. “But, like, sex with Kaner was _so good_ , and despite what you say I _know_ you did something there, and I don’t just want to experience that again, I also want to be able to share it.” He’s rubbing his poofy hair when he adds with a mumble, “With someone special.”

Sam actually buries his face in his hands. “Look. I’m not going to protect your delicate feelings. Your idea is stupid. Your fixation on me is borderline creepy. Your _sharing_ this fixation means that I had to look at _Ovechkin in boxers_.” Jeff has the decency to shudder at that image. “And it _doesn’t even matter_ , because it means nothing. The way to great sex is to have it a lot with people you can communicate with, okay?” Sam actually does jazz hands here, because fuck Jeff Carter. “So maybe stop thinking about how great my dick will make you and _just tell this person that you like them_. Because if you don’t have the courage to do that, the sex is going to suck anyways!”

Jeff looks kind of humbled, kind of amazed, and kind of stupid after that. He’s so deep in thought that Sam is actually able to guide him to the door. “Sam,” Jeff says quietly once he’s being ushered out, and then he sticks his tongue down Sam’s throat again, before hopping off the doorstep and yelling “Thanks!” with a cheerful wave.

Sam slides down his door, buries his face in his legs, and tries to believe this will actually be the end of it.

They lose the game to the Kings 3-2, and not only does Mike Richards give Sam a death glare during the handshakes, but Carter actually gives him an ass pat. And a wink. Fuck.

* * *

Sam normally avoids going out with the Kid Line as much as possible, but right now drinking with Ebs, Nuge, and Hallsy is far preferable to going home sober and having a chance of remembering _anything_. Plus, this way Jeff Carter can’t ambush him to talk about feelings and maybe boners. Sam just needs to drink away this whole terrible week.

“First round is on me,” he tells Nuge. “I don’t care what anyone gets, as long as whatever I get is very, very strong.”

Conversation is pretty low-key for a while, mostly discussing what they did wrong this game, how they can improve, and what the best restaurant in Edmonton is. Sam’s finally starting to relax a little when Hallsy gives him a weird look and says, “Okay, what’s eating you?”

“Nothing,” Sam says, way too fast. “I’m fine.” 

Hallsy shakes his head. “No, you never drink with us, and you never _don’t_ bitch about drinking with us. Something’s up.”

"It's just,” Sam sighs, “Jeff Carter really wants to have sex with me and he won't shut up about it.”

Hallsy begins laughing like Sam has told the world's funniest joke.

"What?" Sam snaps, because Jeff Carter is not an _amusing_ bane of his existence.

Hallsy gives him a weird look and then pats Sam on the back. "Guys having sex with each other? That's a good one, Gags." 

Sam manfully resists the urge to slap himself in the face. Or slap Hallsy upside the head. "Hallsy, when I told you I was gay, _what did you think that meant_?"

But Hallsy’s eyes are widening in realization. "Oh my god," he says, and then turns to Ebs. "Ebs, oh my god, dudes can have sex with other dudes!"

"What," Nuge says slowly, because he likes to act like he's not as stupid as the rest of them, "did you think gay _was_ , Hallsy?"

"I dunno," Hallsy says with a shrug. "That Sam, like, didn't like sex? But really enjoyed hanging out with his bros?"

"What?" Sam squawks at the exact moment Ebs goes, "But that's what we do," and Sam is not touching that no matter how much he's drank. "I'm not celibate!" Sam yells, steamrolling Ebs and Hallsy's realizations. "I _love_ having sex. I just don't like having sex with _Jeff Carter_."

"That makes sense.” Ebs nods sagely, patting Sam on the back. "I hear you're really hung up on Kaner anyways."

Sam figures that, at this point, the only downside to an alcohol-induced coma would be that he might actually wake up, so he starts ordering shots. He hopes this will lead to a change in conversation topic, but somehow their table ends up covered with a lot of lewd drawings of stick figures on napkins, to Sam's eternal shame and Hallsy's endless fascination.

* * *

By the time Sam gets back home, calling Pat to yell at him about ruining Sam’s life seems like a really good idea. He scrolls to THE BLONDE ASSHOLE, briefly notes that it’s 2 AM, and figures, fuck Pat. 

Pat, because he is the worst human being alive, just sounds chipper when he answers. “Sam! Buddy! I hear my awesome skills are making your life suck.”

“God, I hate you,” Sam whines as he kicks off his shoes. “You ... everyone thinks sex stuff between us was the best!”

“Yup!” Pat says gleefully. “I hear you were my _sex mentor_ and everything. Jonny would have been seriously jealous if you hadn’t told him about our first kiss already.”

Of course Pat has to go and remind him of that on Sam’s worst night ever. “Ugh.” 

“So what I'm wondering,” Pat says loudly, “is if I should be pissed that you're taking credit for my sweet moves, or proud of you for lying in order to get laid.” 

Fuck, why did Sam think this drunk dial would help? The kid’s stupid must have rubbed off on him. “I'm not getting laid! I don't want to have sex with any of them!”

“Really?” Pat sounds skeptical. “Not even Carter? Because, man, he is super desperate for - ”

“Fuck you, _especially_ not Carter.” And Pat’s laughing, but Sam is reaching his breaking point for frustration over this. “Or Ovie. Or Subban. Or any of them! They all think I want to give them mind blowing sex, and I don't want that _at all_.”

‘Oh Sam,” Pat says gently, “Of course you don't. What _do_ you want?”

Sam thinks of how tonight would have been a thousand times better if he had seen Tim at all this week. “I want to have normal, average sex with Tim. Or terrible sex. Or great sex. I don’t care, I want it to be with him.” Sam frowns. Maybe he didn’t tell Pat about Tim? “Tim builds robots, Pat. _Baby_ robots. And he has the best smile. I bet he teaches the robots to smile.”

“Sam,” Pat sighs, “never repeat this, but you're not actually an ugly guy with a horrible personality. Why _aren’t_ you having sweet vanilla sex with Tim?”

“Because the entire league has been ruining my life by constantly hitting on me? He saw a text, and ... I don’t know.” Sam rubs his face. “I just feel like I lost my shot.”

“You can’t lose a shot you never took, Gags,” Pat says, like he’s some font of wisdom now that Jonny’s admitted to liking him. “You should go sleep this thing off. It’ll all look better in the morning.”

Sam hangs up and just manages to reach the bed before passing out.

* * *

Sam wakes up with a headache that he is certain is caused 70% by the alcohol and 30% by the fact that Patrick, from what he can remember, was the mature, reasonable adult on the phone last night.

“Ugh,” Sam says, rolling out of bed and continuing onto the floor. His whole body hurts and his mouth tastes terrible. His _life_ is terrible. And he’s 90% sure he spent a not-insignificant period of time last night teaching Hall and Eberle what rimming was using stick figures.

Maybe he can just lay on the floor and never, ever move and eventually die of starvation. Since the idea of food makes Sam want to throw up, it sounds pretty appealing. But if he doesn’t move, he doesn’t get to shower, and Sam _really_ wants a shower. He groans and stands up.

Sam spends his entire shower moping. He mopes while getting dressed and is fully prepared to mope through breakfast when he realizes how pathetic he’s become. So what if a bunch of guys want to sleep with him? He’s capable of turning them down. And so what if he hasn’t seen Tim in a while? So what if Tim thinks he has a boyfriend? Sam never actually told Tim he liked him, and maybe he should have. Maybe the worst thing that would happen is that Tim says no and Sam has to find a new coffee shop, and … compared to the last 24 hours of his life, that’s not so bad at all. It’s livable, at least. Where’s all _his_ courage, anyway?

“Nut up, Gagner,” Sam mutters to himself, grabbing his keys. 

Sam feels like the universe is on his side for once when he gets to the coffee shop and Tim is there. He places his order and then Tim actually _waves him over_ , which sort of blows Sam’s mind. Maybe this can work. 

“So I play hockey,” is what Sam blurts out when he actually reaches the table.

“Yes?” says Tim, elongating the ‘s’. “I knew that.”

“No, I mean - ” and Sam is trying really hard to emphasize how important this is. He’s gesturing and everything. “I play hockey, and you have to understand that most hockey players are morons.”

“Yes?” says Tim, clearly confused.

Sam nods. “Hockey players are morons, and for … complicated reasons, a not-insignificant number of them have decided that sleeping with me is the way to become a ‘sex god.’” Sam makes the douchey air quotes and everything.

Tim looks like he's not entirely convinced that _Sam_ isn't a giant moron, but he also seems amused, and that's an improvement over ‘disappeared.’ "Oh? There are that many gay players in the NHL?"

“No! Most of them aren't even gay,” Sam explains. “They're just morons, and morons are very, very gullible, and very, very indiscriminate about what they will stick their dick in when they're drunk. I'm just, like, living Viagra or something to them.”

Tim is definitely amused now, but also clearly thinks Sam is kind of crazy. "Sam, why are you telling me _any_ of this?"

 _Do or die_ , Sam thinks. “Because I like you! I like you and you saw that text last time and I wanted you to know that's what that was about. It's not...I'm not sleeping with him. It's not like that. I want to sleep with you. Or, I mean, date you? I want that.” 

Tim’s quiet amusement becomes actual laughter. “Oh my god, Sam, have you been thinking I'm pissed at you?”

Sam is giving Tim a sideways look. “Well, yeah. I mean … I haven't really seen you since the text, and you sort of left in a hurry after that, so … ” Sam trails off, feeling like he lost the thread of this conversation somewhere. 

“Sam,” Tim says really gently, and okay, he definitely thinks Sam is stupid, “it's finals right now. I'm not around because I've barely left the library. And I left in a hurry last time because I was late for a meeting. Which I _said_.” Sam vaguely recalls something like that being mentioned, now that he thinks about it. “I mean, yeah, I did assume you maybe had a booty call or something, and I was kind of jealous, but I wasn't mad. We've barely talked. I mean, you're really cute. I'd question people’s judgment if they weren't trying to seduce you.”

That is the best thing Sam has ever heard. “Really?”

Tim pats his shoulder. “Yes, really. Even though you think the best way to ask someone on a date is to tell them how much every single one of your coworkers wants to bang you.”

Sam blushes. Okay, maybe not his greatest plan.

“Fortunately,” Tim says in a magnanimous voice, “I am willing to overlook that because,of how cute you are and because of the expensive restaurant you can afford to take me to.”

Tim’s smiling. Sam’s beaming. “I will spend _so much money_ , Tim,” he says fervently. “Whatever it takes.”

“Great,” says Tim, and then he starts telling Sam his number.

* * *

The best part about having a boyfriend, Sam decides, is that when someone is texting him to have sex, it is nearly always Tim, and Sam is nearly always happy about it. The worst part about having a boyfriend that is Tim is very unsympathetic to Sam’s problems.

“ _That’s_ Jeff Carter?” Tim exclaims the first time they sit down to watch a Kings game. “Poofy bottle blonde?”

“Yes,” says Sam with some hesitation, because this isn’t sounding good so far.

“ _That’s_ who was ruining your reputation? Him?” Tim … seems like he’s laughing. But he does not appear to be laughing _with_ Sam. 

“Why is that funny?” Sam demands, throwing himself dramatically across Tim’s legs. “It was annoying. It was _really_ annoying.” 

“Oh Sammy,” Tim coos, because he’s an asshole. “That guy looks like a human standard poodle. He does not look like the sort of guy who could cause anyone’s life damage, except maybe by accidentally breaking all their plates.”

“Hey!” Sam feels offended and pouts. His life was difficult for a while. Because of all the sex offers. That were easy to turn down. And sort of boosted his ego. But hey, it was still annoying.

“Aw, baby,” Tim says, poking Sam’s cheek. “You finally figured out how good you have it, huh? At least now that you have me.”

“Yeah,” Sam says with a grumble. “You win. But Carter is still awful.”

“Sure,” Tim says agreeably, patting Sam’s shoulder. “Whatever you say, idiot.”

Sam knew this would happen the second he asked Tim out, but still. “Hey!”

“Aw, don’t be mad,” and then Tim leans down to kiss him. “You’re at least _my_ idiot.”

And, okay, maybe _that’s_ the best part of having a boyfriend.


End file.
